“And you mustn’t talk about your mother either,” said Jeremy, “nor any of your people at home.” “Why mustn’t I?” asked Baltimore. “Because they’ll rag you if you do.” Baltimore nodded his head in a determined manner. “I will if they kick me,” he said. That evening was an unhappy one. Jeremy, kept by the matron over some silly business connected with his underclothes, came late into the dormitory to discover a naked Baltimore being beaten with hair-brushes. That was a difficult moment for him, but he dealt with it in the traditional manner of school heroes. He rushed into the midst of the gang, rescued Percy and challenged the room. He was popular and known for a determined fighter, so there was some laughter and jeering; but Baltimore was allowed to creep into his bed. Next morning the school understood that young Stocky Cole had a new _protégé_ and that it was that terrible new boy Pimply Percy. Jeremy’s best friend, Riley minor, spoke to him seriously about it. “I say, Stocky, it isn’t true that you’ve taken up with that awful new kid?” “Thompson says I’ve got to look after him,” Jeremy explained. “But he’s the worst of the lot,” Riley complained disgustedly. “Well, I’ve got to anyway,” said Jeremy shortly. The sad part of it was that Baltimore was by no means grateful for Jeremy’s championship. “You might have come in earlier,” he said. “I don’t call that looking after me.” He now followed Jeremy like a shadow, a complaining, snivelling, whining shadow. Jeremy expostulated. “Look here,” he said. “We needn’t be together all the time. If you’re in trouble or anything you just give me a shout. I’m sure to be round somewhere.” But Baltimore shook his head. “That isn’t what Mr. Thompson said,” he remarked. “He said that you’d look after me. But how can you look after me if you’re not there?” “He didn’t mean us to be together the whole time,” said Jeremy. The thing was impossible. He could keep his own small fry in order, although the jeers and insults of those who had until this term been his admiring friends were very hard to bear. But what was he to do, for instance, about Cracky Brown? Cracky was captain of the cricket, thirteen years of age and going to Eton next term. He was one of three heroes allowed a study, and he was fagged for by several of the new boys, including Baltimore. He had already given young Baltimore several for breaking a cup and saucer. How could Jeremy, aged ten and a half, and in the lower fourth, go up to Cracky and say: “Look here, Brown, you’ve got to leave Baltimore alone,” and yet this was exactly what Baltimore expected Jeremy to do. Baltimore was a boy with one idea. “Mr. Thompson said you were to see they didn’t hit me,” he complained. “Don’t call him Mr. Thompson,” urged Jeremy. “Nobody does.”